#fanfiction about my life

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[150en]

Bdubs sweet home.

[deep-space-lines]

okay but like. I just had the weirdest thought about that ‘don’t look I’m naked’ comic. Which is that that’s essentially the same thing Adam and Eve did after they ate the fruit of knowledge of good&evil. So I feel like the theological implications of that could kneecap Gabe if he doesn’t think V1 is a being with free will.

yeah ok. i dunno man. is this anything

((side note. this isn’t necessarily meant to be in-character or story-accurate or take place at any particular point in time, just a way to explore some Thoughts. i was also imagining more that V1’s words aren't actually spoken, more like Gabriel’s more articulate interpretation of whatever garbled mechanical noise V1 is using to communicate. I think an angel could do that.))

and then they fucked nasty the end

[rafeandonlyrafe]

blowing smoke

words: 1.9k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, fingering, unprotected p in v sex (i think ive written like one fic where theyve used protection i am ashamed), riding, smoking cigs, shotgunning smoke, semi public sex, mentions of drinking

fully inspired by this post bc hnnnnng.

taglist: @drewstarkeysbae @thelomlisrafecameron @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @slut4drudy

“come here, sweetheart.” rafe says, his gruff voice calling out to you over the noise of the party going on in the background. you place your hand in his outstretched one, completely engulfing it as he tugs you closer, onto his lap.

rafe bounces you once on his lap, making you smile and lean into him, not shying away from the physical contact.

“shouldn’t we be down with the rest of the party?” you ask, not that you actually want to leave the secluded balcony to rejoin the group, you much prefer having rafes undivided attention.

“do you want to go back to the party?” rafe asks, fingers pulling the thin strap of your dress off your shoulder.

you smile and tilt your chin down, rafe knows the answer. you always prefer being alone with him. 

“why don’t you ride me and then we can go back to the party?” rafe questions, making you look around the space.

“i don’t know, someone could walk up at any time…” 

rafe lets out a laugh, making you pout. he runs his thumb over your cheek, “baby, you think anyone would come up here without my permission?”

while the nerves still build in your stomach with the thought of someone easily being able to come up the stairs and seeing what’s happening on the second story balcony, you can’t resist rafe, which he certainly knows as you readjust on his lap so you’re straddling him.

you pull your dress up over your hips, and it’s tight enough that it stays in place. rafe smiles seeing what underwear you’re wearing, tiny panties with the letter r on the front that he got you for valentines day.

“my favorite.” rafe smiles, pulling on the strap and then letting it sna back into your hip.

you let out a gasp at the brief moment of pain, leaning forward and pressing your lips against your boyfriends, tasting the slight taste of alcohol on his breath. rafe easily dominates the kiss, his hand cupping your jaw as he controls you.

you moan against his mouth, knowing that no one will be able to hear you over the music pumping out of the speakers on the patio beneath you.

you move closer to rafe, pressing your chest together so you can grind your core against him, feeling him swell with your movements. you feel a rush of confidence with how quickly you can get him hard, taking rafes lower lip in between your teeth and giving it a slight tug.

rafe lets you have the moment of dominance, only to reach down and press his finger over your pussy, rubbing it through the thin underwear. “oh fuck.” you moan after releasing his lip, placing your hands on his thighs and leaning backwards, giving him better access to your clit, which he rubs mercilessly.

“all shy a few minutes ago, and now you’re leaking for my cock.” rafe laughs, not caring that you’ve soaked through your underwear and are leaving spots on his pants.

you pout, but it’s quickly wiped off your face when rafe tugs your underwear to the side, looking up at you with a smirk, “i would rip these off of you if they weren’t a gift.” you roll your eyes with a smile, knowing rafe has a proclivity for getting you out of your clothes by the quickest means possible, even if it means you regularly have to buy new underwear.

you almost lose your grip on rafes leg, thankful for the rough material of his jeans catching you, as he plunges a finger into your heat, looking at your pussy with a face of determination as he fingers you quickly, not deciding to go slow today.

you sit up straight, eyes going to the railing to make sure no one is able to see you, before leaning forward and cupping rafes face in your hands, letting your lips guide over each others in a half-kiss as you continue to moan.

rafe gets tired of just fucking you with his finger, his cock is almost uncomfortable from how hard he is, pressing against his zipper. he quickly inserts a second finger, turning his hand so his thumb can rub over your clit at the same time.

he doesn’t last more than a few thrust before the need to have you gets too great, pulling his fingers out suddenly, making you whine at the loss. you get to work quickly on his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them as rafe takes his fingers into his mouth, licking all of your wetness off, tasting sweet on his tongue. 

“gonna ride daddy?” rafe asks, referring to himself as he lifts his hips, letting you tug his jeans and boxers down just enough to get his cock out.

“of course, daddy.” you bat your eyelashes at him, giving him a quick few strokes, even though he’s so hard he doesn’t need it, his tip a pretty pink color that makes you want to wrap your lips around it, but you know he’s not going to be able to get you off his dick if you suck him off, and you really do want to ride him.

you position yourself over top his cock, having to lift up onto your knees to line his cock up with your pussy. you close your eyes and take a deep breath, determined to take all of him quickly as you lower yourself onto his cock.

rafe watches you in fascination, always in awe of how you’re so willing and able to please him. you only pause for a second when you’re fully seated on his cock, before you begin to bounce, starting with small movements as you build up, placing your hands on his chest for stability.

“god, my perfect little bunny.” rafe smiles, tugging at the front of your dress until the top falls under your boobs, letting them spill free, moving along with you with every shift of your hips.

“feels so good.” you whine when rafe cups your tits, smirking as his big hands cover your entire chest. you are determined to show him how good you feel, moving faster even as you cunt cries out from the harshness of your movements.

“so good for daddy.” rafe compliments you, surprised how quickly you’ve completely forgotten that there’s just shy of 100 people only a floor below you.

“mhm, good just for you.” you say, moving your hands to his shoulders as you shift backwards slightly.

you roll your hips along to the song playing, watching as rafe reaches over to the table next to him, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and his customized lighter, filled with pictures of you on it. it’s the only one that he uses ever since you got it for him, even refusing to light up other peoples cigs or joints when they ask him to. 

rafe pulls a cigarette out of the pack and places it between his lips as you continue your movements. he brings his lighter up to his mouth, cupping his other hand to protect the flame from the light wind as he lights his cig.

you slow your moves in time with his deep inhale, rafes eyes sliding shut as he breathes in the smoke, only for you to speed up the second he quirks his lips to the side and blows it out.

“god, i’m in fucking heaven.” rafe pulls the cigarette out of his mouth with one hand, bringing his free hand to grip your hip and help you slightly with your movements.

you giggle, leaning forward and accepting the end of the cigarette rafe puts in your mouth, also taking a breath, admittedly not as deep as your breathing fast from riding him. you tip your head back and blow the smoke out into the air before refocusing.

“damn, riding me so good baby.” rafe gives your ass a quick slap before gripping your plump bum, still helping you move all while feeling you up.

he sticks the cigarette between his lips, taking another draw from it before he pulls it out, not caring to turn away from the sight in front of him as he blows the smoke over your body, making you let out a moan.

“fuck, dirty girl.” rafe delivers another spanking.

you cry out, knowing he’s going to leave a red mark on your ass. you bring one hand away from the iron grip you have on rafes shoulders to rub at your clit.

“let me do that for you.” rafe slaps your hand away, being careful not to hit you with the lit end of the cigarette, wanting to get his fingers back on your slickness.

you smile, knowing rafe likes it when he’s the one who makes you cum. he sticks the cigarette back between in the corner of his mouth, showing off how familiar he is with the action as he takes a puff and blows it out without using his hands.

you know you’re going to smell like smoke later as he brings his fingers to your clit, circling on the outside before flicking it as you clench your cunt around him every time you pull up before letting loose and slamming back down.

rafe can’t speak to warn you that he’s close for risk of his cigarette falling out of his mouth, but you can tell just from the way his cock swells inside of you that he’s not going to last much longer.

“faster, rafe.” you place a hand over the back of his as his fingers speed up, toying with your bud the perfect amount as you let out a loud moan, not caring even if someone did walk up the stairs.

your orgasm overtakes your body, unable to keep moving as you slump forward, rafes fingers slowing as you let your head fall onto his shoulder, trying to breathe as he suddenly pulls his hand away from your clit, gripping onto your hips with both hands and bouncing you once, twice, and then a third time on his cock before he’s cumming, flooding your insides.

“fuck.” rafe groans, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth, keeping one hand on your ass to make sure you don’t get up yet, wanting to enjoy the feeling of your fluttering walls around him for longer.

you turn your head to the side, giving his neck a kiss and nuzzling your nose against his skin as you both breathe heavily, coming down for your collective high.

you sit up after a moment, realizing that you’re going to start leaking out as rafe softens.

“rafey-”

“yeah, alright.” he sighs, letting you pull off of him, his cock flopping down against his skin. you can’t bring yourself to stand up and actually take care of the cum, opting to pull your panties back in place and hope that they catch everything. 

you pull the top of your dress back up over your dress, adjusting your boobs and regretting your decision to go braless as your nipples poke through the material.

you watch as rafe tucks himself back into his pants, lifting off his lap slightly so he can redo his jeans.

“gimme.” you try to take the cigarette out of rafes hand, but he stops you, taking a deep drag for himself before dropping the almost finished cig onto the ashtray, taking your face in his hands and bringing you close.

your mouth slots open, and he blows the smoke into your mouth as you inhale it. you hold it for a moment before exhaling, letting the smoke rise around you.

rafe smiles at your actions, pressing your lips together in a long kiss, knowing you’re not going back down to the party any time soon.

[foolsocracy]

love it when itsv noir pete refers to it as WWI like. Who told him about the second one

[windfalling]

THE FALL [1/5]

"You can unlearn what was taught to you," The Stranger said, his voice almost gentle. "We will do it together." Osha discovers her strength in the Force with The Stranger to guide her.

[fiendishartist2]

shout out to elias bouchard for fucking up a perfectly good mildly toxic workplace. you literally couldn't have done worse

[scorpiusmalfoylovesoscarwilde]

you know, as an asexual who still enjoys viewing sexual content in like books fanfiction and films and things, it's all fun and games until I remember that people actually DO THOSE THINGS?? LIKE IN REAL LIFE?? REGULARLY??🧍🏻‍♂️like WHAT DO YOU MEAN SEX ISNT A FANFICTION TROPE??? 😭 crazy out here man

[myokk]

fast sketch of ominis & fast intro to the ominis longfic I'm working on!! This is going to be the most self-indulgent pride and prejudice ripoff that ever existed, 100% based on the ominis of my oneshot💘

I am just OBSESSED with exploring the idea that he’s a natural legilimens & OBSESSED with the thought that he thinks too much for his own good🫶🫶🫶

Ominis Gaunt has always suspected he is cold-blooded.

It makes sense, really.

He always seems to be cold: frigid, long fingers that are often stiff and difficult to move; goosebumps raising the skin of his arms and the back of his neck any time he walks through the drafty halls of the dungeons; even his eyes, he has been told, are reminiscent of ice. They are apparently quite unsettling. The only time he feels comfortable in his body is when he basks in the heat of the sun.

His earliest memory is of the cold. It went like this: he was four years old: his older brother, Marvolo, had led him outside as a joke, he swore up and down that it was just a small joke, and how was he supposed to know that poor, blind Ominis would not be able to find his way back home? When his parents had finally found him, his frail mother sobbing and holding his tiny, blue, hypothermic body to her chest, Ominis remembers feeling quite perturbed at the disturbance. Couldn’t he just be left alone, in the silent soft snow?

He does not know if he has ever felt warm since.

As he strides through the dungeons, the copious amount of warming charms he casts on himself do not seem to be enough, but he keeps casting them anyways and also: wrapping his wool scarf more tightly around his neck, quickening his pace in the hopes that blood flows more easily through his limbs, wishing that he had remembered his gloves. Winter is always a terrible time of year (this winter more terrible than usual), and every breath of warm air leaves his lips reluctantly. How he wishes that he could just hold on to it a bit longer and yet the warmth leaves him precisely fifteen traitorous times a minute, the frigid air gleefully entering and burning its way down his throat in response. Maybe it’s a punishment of some sort.

His whole life has been defined by punishments and sometimes he preoccupies himself with the thought that it is the only way he can view the world. Most of the punishments are manifested in curses inherited from his family. (His parents and Marvolo insist that they are gifts, but Ominis begs to differ.)

First, his blindness: the only true punishment-curse that even his family rejects: caused by inbreeding, no doubt. He did not cry after his birth and his mother cradled his tiny body in silent arms, lovingly whispering nonsense-evil-Parseltongue to him but when he opened his eyes and she saw a brilliant celestine blue with no iris, she screamed in horror and shattered the frigid peace of the room. His parents tried everything to fix him, make him whole, throwing money at various possible solutions to no avail. Magically induced disabilities are not, apparently, curable by magic.

Ominis is not sure that he hates being blind, although he suspects everyone thinks that he should. It is as much a part of him as his fifteen-breaths-per-minute, and he thinks that vision is not all it’s cracked up to be. He is always terrified at the thought that his tenuous hold on sanity is only due to the fact that he cannot see, until he realizes he shouldn’t be terrified of hypothetical situations that cannot come to pass. He consoles himself with the thought that maybe, if he has had to give up his vision for his sanity, it is a small price to pay. Although, he also thinks sometimes that it would be nice to live a life without any morality holding him back.

He is entirely too introspective, after all.

It is precisely this introspection that is his downfall in this moment (and his cold blood). Ominis is so busy casting warming charms on himself and thinking in circles that he cannot use his wand to help him sense his environment and so he should not be surprised when he crashes into her.

And yet he is. Terribly surprised.

Maybe if he were not so caught up in his own thoughts he could have paid more attention to his surroundings. Instead, he spent too much time ruminating on his reptilian heritage and has now barreled head first into his arch-nemesis.

Rosalie Harris.

The girl who has stolen his oldest friend from him.

The girl who is currently making angry noises as she clambers to her feet and is picking up the things that he has crashed everywhere. Even if he could see, Ominis is not sure he would help her. Helping her would be akin to betraying himself, after all.

“Hey! Watch where you’re - oh, hello, Ominis.”

“Rosalie,” he says shortly, nodding his head where he thinks she might be standing and stepping to the side. He tightens his grip around his wand, feeling the texture of the wood change from rough to smooth as he runs his thumb down it. Smooth where he always seems to worry it, rough where the wood refuses to yield to the brushes of his thumb.

He surreptitiously casts the spell - he has at least done it so many times he no longer needs to say it out loud - and his surroundings light up. Or, he supposes that is the most apt description, considering he cannot actually differentiate between light and dark. He senses Rosalie’s silhouette to his left - she is standing with her arms crossed and her foot taps impatiently as she waits for him.

Waiting for what? he thinks, slightly irritated. She never seems to leave him alone and he wracks his brain trying to think of something, anything he can say to get rid of her.

Maybe if he speaks in Parseltongue, she would finally be scared away for good. He does not really want that second reminder of his family’s curse, though.

His family preferred speaking in Parseltongue with each other, believing the ability made them morally superior to everyone else and Ominis had not even realized until he had arrived at Hogwarts that no, it was not normal. When his name had been called at the Sorting, furious whispers had erupted amongst all the students, and his every step (terrified, confused, unsure - he had still been getting used to using his wand to navigate his surroundings) to the stool at the front of the Great Hall was plagued with a susurration reminiscent of snakes. Except these whispers, sneaking their way into his mind, had been unkind and overwhelming.

(He had not realized in that moment that he was also hearing their thoughts.)

Maybe now, with Rosalie standing in front of him and just annoyingly waiting for Merlin-knows-what, Ominis should use his Legilimency to find out what Rosalie wants. (He hates it, though.) It would not be difficult. (The thought makes him shiver in horror because he doesn’t want to abuse the ability.) He can feel the edges of her mind, her magic, and all he has to do is reach out - she is right there, and -

“Ominis?”

Her arms are crossed, he hears an impatient huff.

Why hasn’t she left him alone yet?

Hadn’t the Hogwarts Express already left the station, bringing all of the students home for the winter holiday? Ominis had thought he would be one of the only students left in the castle, and if he is being honest with himself, he had been looking quite forward to having the place to himself.

Ominis’s winter has just gotten infinitely worse.

Going to Gaunt Manor for the holidays is out of the question (he will not think about the nightmares that have been plaguing him ever since he received the owl demanding he go home), and Ominis does not want to be more of a burden to the Sallows. They already do enough for him over the summer, and Sebastian and Anne have convinced him to go to Hogsmeade with them at least twice over the next two weeks. Besides, with Anne’s curse progressing, Ominis does not want to be in the way.

“Why are you still here?” Ominis asks. He knows his voice comes across as cold as his blood, blunt, but he cannot help himself. Ever since Rosalie arrived - her entrance to Hogwarts also causing quite the stir - Ominis has been intensely annoyed by her presence. She is too happy. Too carefree. Too…well, everything he is not.

And, she does not seem to leave him alone.

Rosalie is always there, always hanging around Sebastian. (Taking Sebastian away.) He even showed her the Undercroft, which had almost caused a rift in their relationship. Ominis could not believe that Sebastian would be so careless, showing someone who for all intents and purposes is crashing her way into their lives, forcing them to pay attention to her. They barely even knew her, and yet Sebastian thought it was a good idea to show her such a sacred place?

(It does not help that she is intelligent, and Ominis has caught himself on more than one occasion about to ask her about her opinion on something before he catches himself.)

“I was looking for you.”

Ominis tilts his head at that and fiddles with his ring. He considers walking away, leaving -

“I mean…Sebastian said that you were also going to be here over the holidays and since everyone else just left I thought -”

“Thought what?” Internally, Ominis winces at the biting tone to his voice. It came out harsher than he intended, his voice loud and echoing through his mind, bouncing off the cold, stone walls surrounding them.

[unnamednarrator]

i think calling katniss’ bluff is in peeta’s top 5 favourite activities

[leona-florianova]

Illustration for Hellblazer fanfic Lights Out (by NAOA on ao3)

[anditwentlikethis]

put this on my grave

[kings-highway]

Haikyuu Flash Fiction: "STZ - 7 Minutes in Heaven" (Ushiten)

---

Semi thought it would be a funny prank. After all, Tendou's been harbouring this crush on Ushijima for so long it was getting ridiculous. Where's the harm in pulling on his leg a bit? So when the team is at a party and everyone is laughing and it's ten minutes to midnight, they suggest a game of truth or dare - and oh, it would have been easy to just dare oblivious Ushijima to kiss the poor lovelorn idiot but Semi had other ideas. "Seven minutes in Heaven," he says. "With.. Tendou."

The look Tendou gives him is worth a million bad karma points. Priceless even!

"What is that?" Ushijima would ask, because he has never heard of this odd game. Semi, gladly explains the rules to an increasingly flustered Tendou.

"You have to make-out in a closet for seven minutes."

Ushijima just shrugs and gets up, and Semi is quite happy to follow them to the closet, intending to use something to tie the handles and lock them in.

The closet door shuts.

Now, what you might have already begun to expect to happen did not actually occur to Semi - Or Tendou - upon shutting that closet door.

1. Ushijima Wakatoshi does not break game rules (Tendou will try to explain most people don't actually do any kissing.)

2. Ushijima Wakatoshi wins games.

Semi is hopeful that what he's done is fluster and embarass Tendou enough to take him down a peg. What he gets, instead, when that closet door opens again, is Ushijima wandering out like nothing at all has happened, followed by a Tendou that could barely walk, flushed more red than he'd thought human skin could be, and breathing so hard he may as well have run a marathon.

Semi finds neat holes cut into all his clothes about 6 days later.

[to-proudly-go]

Some of my friends can't fathom how I can oscillate from loving the most cliche and fluffiest stories to the most depraved and horrifying ones and like

A love story is a love story because it has love in it–tender, tragic, brutal, unconditional, unconventional, gruesome, simple, complicated love–but it is love all the same, no matter the form

So why should I prefer one over the others when it all gives me the same satisfaction?

[little-annie]

Just another @strangerthingswritersguild drabble.

G | WC 635 | Steve, Eddie & Robin

It was a typical Thursday evening in Buckingson home -as previously named by a very inebriated Robin and Eddie. Some random record playing on low, the small space lit by nothing but the orange glow of lamp light and candle flame.

To anyone it would sound like a peaceful night at home.

But not just anyone had Eddie for a live-in boyfriend and Robin for a best friend who also happened to be a roommate. And surely no one had the pair of chaos twins constantly bringing in stray animals to their home.

The first time it'd been a bird, some small feathery thing with a damaged wing that Robin carried into their home with her bare hands and made a nest for out of grass clippings Eddie had gathered in the park. They named the chirpy little thing Squeaker, and by the time it's wing had healed the small animal had been on several road trips and one memorable trip to the grocery store. He'd (?) joined the next migration and now every year since when his flock comes through the city, he'll perch himself on their balcony and chitter until Robin or Eddie come out to say hello.

Then there had been Bambi. A small abandoned fawn Eddie somehow managed to sneak past Steve and into Robin's room where the pair cared for the thing until a wildlife rehabilitation centre could pick it up. Steve didn't find out about that one until he answered the call from the rehab centre offering their update on the creature several weeks later.

There was also Bob the baby Racoon, Dorothy the dumpster cat, Roco the abandoned puppy and now, there was Pumpkin, apparently.

Steve had been in the kitchen slaving away over dinner when he heard the soft click of the front door and the insanely uncharacteristic whispers between Eddie and Robin.

And then there was a meow.

A wretched, croaky thing that sounded as if the newest addition to their home had the same nicotine problem as Eddie.

“Shhhh,” Steve could hear Eddie whisper as he continued to stir the pot of pasta sauce he was making, “Don't want Stevie finding out about you just yet.”

“We gotta bath you first baby,” Robin added.

Steve could only imagine the condition of this animal, let alone the event it would be for Robin and Eddie to bathe it.

But as he had a handful of times before, he pretended he hadn't heard a thing and let the chaotic two carry on.

Just the sound of them attempting to wash the cat was rather comical. Of course there was lots of swearing and one quite loud yelp from Eddie, accompanied by Robin's hushed placating. Funny enough they were still trying to be quiet, but Steve could still hear the murmurs of…

“Are you bleeding?”

“Of course I'm bleeding, Buckley. Did you see the claws on this thing.”

“Did you see the nuts on ‘em?”

“Unfortunately, yes. What the fuck?”

“Should they be that big?”

“I don't know. We'll ask Steve.”

“What do you think happened to his tail?”

“Probably froze off like his ears.”

Jesus Christ.

Twenty minutes, several yowls from the cat, one loud painful sounding yelp from Eddie later, Steve is introduced to Pumpkin.

He's a scraggly looking thing.

One eyed, half tailed and missing the majority of his two ears. The definition of a dumpster cat. Steve's sure the cat stunk before the bath the apparently three before him endured.

Robin and Eddie are soaked head to toe. Bloodied and bandaged. Hair in utter disarray. They look exhausted. But they also look to be just beaming with excitement.

The cat on the other hand, held tightly in Robin's arms looks less than thrilled.

“Steve,” Robin starts, joined by Eddie a moment later, “Sweetheart,”

“Meet Pumpkin.”

[m3rkur3]

this is a greaaaaat addition, if only because i am so interested in the (literary?) analysis a journalist could provide on another's work. but it also just goes to show just how much better this could've been. this is what i meant by it needed time. time and attention to detail. this is a lot of errors for someone who claims to be a journalist. like foundational errors that you cannot look past. again: why are you bringing stuff up you cannot elaborate on? if it's bc you don't have enough info then don't say it! you will look bad! and it doesn't matter how true your story is, if you are not credible then the work you want your story to do will not manifest!!! for the sake of the article and the people who put themselves forward do your due diligence! i actually (as i have said a million times now) do not really doubt the claims made in this article. at least not 80% of it. but the fact that it is SOOOO easy to call into question sucks not just for you as a writer but the people you wrote it for. imagine putting yourself out there as an anonymous source and the work that went into sharing your story is as sloppy as this! it's sad for those people, and for newt themselves. i'm sure they were both excited and scared to share this and for that i really wish they did do better because now look! everyone is calling into question whether this is even credible. And the editors? Not one of you was like "wait, we're gonna need some hard evidence if we expect people to take this seriously and to consider it more than just a callout post"? anyways. it is 6:23am.

Who's Afraid of Bad Attempts at Journalism?

Some of you may have seen a callout post on Medium about Rusty Quill. The author claims to have spoken with a number of people who worked with RQ. The allegations are worth considering, but they should be taken with a heavy grain of salt.

I have trouble taking the callout post seriously for a number of reasons.

The author is head of marketing for Fable & Folly. They initially failed to mention this, but later added this incredibly defensive note: "Editor’s Note: [name] is currently the Marketing Director for Fable & Folly Network, but has worked as an independent creator and journalist for longer." That's a huge conflict of interest.

2. I'm not seeing any evidence that this person is a "journalist." They don't list it on the resume on their website. If they are a journalist, they're not doing it on Medium with (as of this writing) 47 followers.

3. The article title is pure clickbait. It suggests Alex J. Newall is someone to be afraid of and makes vague allegations of RQ showing "aggression," but he's barely mentioned in the article at all. It's an unnecessarily inflammatory title, but that's what they seem to want: to stir drama.

4. The article uses TMA character names as pseudonyms. This was extremely distracting and gave the whole post a weird, cartoonish vibe. As was the decision to use the phrase, "Make your statement, face your fear" to link the post.

5. The article depends entirely on anonymous sources. While anonymous sources are necessary sometimes, the problem is that no one can independently verify what they said. They claim the sources asked to be anonymous because they were afraid RQ would retaliate and ruin their careers, or the fandom would attack them. That may be true. Or it may be because they signed NDAs, which would make it illegal to publicly discuss what happened. An NDA would be a good reason not to come forward, but unfortunately, we can't ask them about it, because they're anonymous.

6. They claim RQ has threatened to sue multiple people--okay, what were the circumstances? It literally never comes back up. Were these NDA violations? Breach of contract? No clue, they don't bother to elaborate.

7. They talk about salaries in different currencies without converting, in the same paragraph. Then they bring up the rates for freelance audio engineers, as if freelancers don't generally get higher rates than in-house staff.

8. The author is finding posts on Twitter and blocking anyone who disagrees with them. I've never interacted with the author, but they found my post and blocked me and others on the thread for daring to criticize the article. That alone speaks volumes about their professionalism. (And also explains why I didn't find any critical comments when I first looked: they're probably all banned).

There are doubtlessly far more issues with the post, but those are just the ones that were immediately apparent.

None of this is to say I think RQ is a well-run company. The dismissive treatment of their server mods alone tells me they have serious problems. But we should all think carefully when we read the allegations in the post, and consider the credibility and motivations of the author.